The bare walls of her body ooze breath of cold
trapping the bones in
soft cocoon of damp flesh where the
air reeks of sodden earth —
She moans with mute numbness and
counts to fifteen
heavy with blubber she is wild
yet dead like all the Decembers
and all their frosts from
ages past until now, those
icicle mornings that turn grass blades brown
and cover the hills
with a ghostly hue and have
long since melted
into
the spring


A Golden Shovel poem based on two lines from Emily Brontë’s poem Remembrance:

Cold in the earth — and fifteen wild Decembers
From those brown hills have melted into spring:

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